Читать книгу Billionaire Boy - David Walliams - Страница 7
Оглавление“Bum boy,” said Joe.
“Bum Boy?” spluttered Mr Spud. “What else do they call you at school, son?”
“The Bog Roll Kid...”
Mr Spud shook his head in disbelief. He had sent his son to the most expensive school in England: St Cuthbert’s School for Boys. The fees were £200,000 a term and all the boys had to wear Elizabethan ruffs and tights. Here is a picture of Joe in his school uniform. He looks a bit silly, doesn’t he?
So the last thing that Mr Spud expected was that his son would get bullied. Bullying was something that happened to poor people. But the truth was that Joe had been picked on ever since he started at the school. The posh kids hated him, because his dad had made his money out of loo rolls. They said that was ‘awfully vulgar’.
“Bottom Billionaire, The Bum-Wipe Heir, Master Plop-Paper,” continued Joe. “And that’s just the teachers.”
Most of the boys at Joe’s school were Princes, or at least Dukes or Earls. Their families had made their fortunes from owning lots of land. That made them ‘old money’. Joe had quickly come to learn that money was only worth having if it was old. New money from selling loo rolls didn’t count.
The posh boys at St Cuthbert’s had names like Nathaniel Septimus Ernest Bertram Lysander Tybalt Zacharias Edmund Alexander Humphrey Percy Quentin Tristan Augustus Bartholomew Tarquin Imogen Sebastian Theodore Clarence Smythe.
That was just one boy.
The subjects were all ridiculously posh too. This was Joe’s school timetable:
Monday
Latin
Straw-Hat wearing
Royal studies
The study of etiquette
Show-jumping
Ballroom dancing
Debating Society (‘This house believes that it is vulgar to do up the bottom button on your waistcoat’)
Scone eating
Bow-tie tying
Punting
Polo (the sport with horses and sticks, not the mint)
Tuesday
Ancient Greek
Croquet
Pheasant shooting
Being beastly to servants class
Mandolin level 3
History of Tweed
Nose in the air hour
Learning to step over the homeless person as you leave the opera
Finding your way out of a maze
Wednesday
Fox-hunting
Flower arranging
Conversing about the weather
History of cricket
History of the brogue
Playing Stately Home Top Trumps
Reading Harper’s Bazaar
Ballet appreciation class
Top-hat polishing
Fencing (the one with swords, not selling stolen goods)
Thursday
Antique furniture appreciation hour
Range Rover tyre changing class
Discussion of whose daddy is the richest
Competition to see who is best friends with Prince Harry
Learning to talk posh
Rowing club
Debating Society (‘This house believes that muffins are best toasted’)
Chess
The study of coats of arms
A lecture on how to talk loudly in restaurants
Friday
Poetry reading (Medieval English)
History of wearing corduroy
Topiary class
Classical sculpture appreciation class
Spotting yourself in the party pages of Tatler hour
Duck hunting
Billiards
Classical music appreciation afternoon
Dinner party discussion topic class (e.g. how the working classes smell)
However, the main reason why Joe hated going to St Cuthbert’s wasn’t the silly subjects. It was the fact that everyone at the school looked down on him. They thought that someone whose papa made their money from bog rolls was just too, too frightfully common.
“I want to go to a different school, Dad,” said Joe.
“No problem. I can afford to send you to the poshest schools in the world. I heard about this place in Switzerland. You ski in the morning and then—”
“No,” said Joe. “How about I go to the local comp?”
“What?” said Mr Spud.
“I might make a friend there,” said Joe. He’d seen the kids milling around the school gates when he was being chauffeured to St Cuthbert’s. They all looked like they were having such a great time – chatting, playing games, swapping cards. To Joe, it all looked so fabulously normal.
“Yes, but the local comp...” said Mr Spud, incredulously. “Are you sure?”
“Yes,” replied Joe, defiantly.
“I could build you a school in the back garden if you like?” offered Mr Spud.
“No. I want to go to a normal school. With normal kids. I want to make a friend, Dad. I don’t have a single friend at St Cuthbert’s.”
“But you can’t go to a normal school. You are a billionaire, boy. All the kids will either bully you or want to be friends with you just because you are rich. It’ll be a nightmare for you.”
“Well, then I won’t tell anyone who I am. I’ll just be Joe. And maybe, just maybe, I’ll make a friend, or even two…”
Mr Spud thought for a moment, and then relented. “If that’s what you really want, Joe, then OK, you can go to a normal school.”
Joe was so excited he bum-jumped* along the sofa nearer to his dad to give him a cuddle.
“Don’t crease the suit, boy,” said Mr Spud.
*[Bumjumping (verb) bum-jump-ing. To move places while sitting using only your bottom to power you, thus meaning you do not have to get up. Much favoured by the overweight.]
“Sorry Dad,” said Joe, bumjumping back a little. He cleared his throat. “Um… I love you, Dad.”
“Yes, son, ditto, ditto,” said Mr Spud, as he rose to his feet. “Well, have a good birthday, mate.”
“Aren’t we going to do something together tonight?” said Joe, trying to hide his disappointment. When he was younger, Joe’s dad would always take him to the local burger restaurant as a birthday treat. They couldn’t afford the burgers, so they would just order the chips, and eat them with some ham and pickle sandwiches that Mr Spud would smuggle in under his hat.
“I can’t son, sorry. I’ve got a date with this beautiful girl tonight,” said Mr Spud, indicating Page 3 of the Sun.
Joe looked at the page. There was a photograph of a woman whose clothes seemed to have fallen off. Her hair was dyed white blonde and she had so much make-up on it was difficult to tell if she was pretty or not. Underneath the image it read, ‘Sapphire, 19, from Bradford. Likes shopping, hates thinking. ’
“Don’t you think Sapphire’s a little young for you, Dad?” asked Joe.
“It’s only a twenty-seven-year age gap,” replied Mr Spud in an instant.
Joe wasn’t convinced. “Well, where are you taking this Sapphire?”
“A nightclub.”
“A nightclub?” asked Joe.
“Yes,” said Mr Spud, in an offended tone. “I am not too old to go to a nightclub!” As he spoke he opened a box and pulled out what looked like a hamster that had been flattened by a mallet and put it on his head.
“What on earth is that, Dad?”
“What’s what, Joe?” replied Mr Spud with mock innocence, as he adjusted the contraption to cover his bald dome.
“That thing on your head.”
“Ooh, this. It’s a toupee, boy! Only ten grand each. I bought a blonde one, a brown one, a ginger one, and an afro for special occasions. It makes me look twenty years younger, don’t you think?”
Joe didn’t like to lie. The toupee didn’t make his dad look younger – instead, it made him look like a man who was trying to balance a dead rodent on his head. Therefore, Joe chose a noncommittal, “Mmm.”
“Right. Well, have a good night,” Joe added, picking up the remote. It looked like it would be just him and the 100-inch TV again.
“There’s some caviar in the fridge for your tea, son,” said Mr Spud as he headed for the door.
“What’s caviar?”
“It’s fish eggs, son.”
“Eurgh…” Joe didn’t even like normal eggs much. Eggs laid by a fish sounded really revolting.
“Yeah, I had some on toast for me breakfast. It’s absolutely disgusting, but it is very expensive so we should start eating it.”
“Can’t we just have bangers and mash or fish and chips or shepherd’s pie or something, Dad?”
“Mmm, I used to love shepherd’s pie, son…” Mr Spud drooled a little, as if imagining the taste of shepherd’s pie.
“Well then…?”
Mr Spud shook his head impatiently. “No no no, we are rich, son! We have to eat all this posh stuff now like proper rich people do. See you later!” The door slammed behind him and moments later Joe heard the deafening roar of his father’s lime-green Lamborghini speeding off into the night.
Joe was disappointed to be on his own again, but he still couldn’t suppress a small smile as he turned on the TV. He was going to go to an ordinary school again and be an ordinary boy. And maybe, just maybe, make a friend.
The question was, how long could Joe keep the fact that he was a billionaire a secret…?
