It’s because all of Heaton is here.
Nota handfulof locals, like Blake said.
But a lot.
Ahorde,in actual matter: the kids all cheering at their school gate, clutching pieces of paper that I guess their teachers havedoled out to them for autographs, then crowds of others who, now they’ve spotted us, rush down the road with big smiles, their phones out, snapping photos. Press photographers push ahead of them, aiming their wide-angled lenses in our direction, whilst reporters forge ahead of the photographers, calling out our names, shouting their demands to know our inner-most feelings.
‘I’m going to end Blake,’ breathes Nick.
‘Get in line,’ says Felix.
‘I actually don’t know if I can do this,’ says Emma.
Nor do I.
But, as I once again glance at the school gate, I lock eyes with a little girl in a Peppa Pig hat, whose face is all flushed and hopeful and shy, and I know I will do it.
Summoning my smile, Idodoit, going to that girl, and asking her name (Jaymee), then her age (six), and whether she has any brothers or sisters (just an older brother; he’s annoying. ‘No, I’m not,’ exclaims an only slightly bigger boy, in a Hulk hat, making me laugh). Holding up her paper, Jaymee asks if she can have my autograph, please, and, telling her that of course she can, I crouch, taking her pen, resting the paper on my knee to sign it.
‘Cinderellais my favourite movie,’ she says, so quietly I have to strain to hear her above the racket.
‘Oh, mine too,’ I say, and don’t embarrass her by saying it was actually Lily James who played Cinderella. I just write her a message, telling her what a thrill it’s been to meet her, and hand her the paper back.
It’s taken maybe forty-five seconds of my time, that’s all, but it’s made her sohappy.
Giggling, she turns to wave her paper at her little pals, all of whom are waving theirs at me – and Nick, and Felix, and Emma, who,doing it, have joined us.
We all keep doing it, not for the press – who the headmistress instructs to remain outside the school gate, and who we ignoreentirely – but for these really sweet, polite kids, and their teachers, and everyone else, who, on this freezing Friday morning, has turned out, just because they heard we were on our way, and wanted to say hello.
None of the other adults who’ve come are allowed past the school gates either, so they remain there with the press, waiting for us to get to them. No one complains though, or tries to push it, and we take it in turns to flit back and forth between them and the children: signing, grasping hands, posing for selfies, smiling, smiling,smiling.
To my amazement, Nick knows the names of quite a few of the children, and greets them with fist bumps like they’re the only people he could possibly have hoped to run into this morning. Clearly, he’s met them around the village before. And not only does he remember their names, but also their favourite football teams, and songs. He even notices that a boy called Hugo has lost another tooth since they last saw one another.
‘I hope you got good money for that, buddy,’ he says, eyeing his gaps. ‘You’re not going to be eating anything solid for like a month, at least.’
‘I ate a corn on the cob last night.’
‘That’s pretty impressive.’
‘And I got five pounds from the tooth fairy.’
‘Five?’ Nick throws me a look. I’m over at the gate again. ‘Was that the going rate for you?’
‘I used to get twenty pence,’ I say, handing a woman back her copy ofThe Bomber Boys, which I’ve just signed for her daughter, Isla, who’s fifteen, and at secondary school in York, and a huge history buff, and who’d apparently never let her mum hear the end of it if she failed at getting the book autographed.
‘I used to get a quarter,’ says Emma.
‘Twenty pence too,’ say Felix, who grew up in London. ‘I think we’re all showing our age. What did you get, Nick? A nickel?’
‘No,’ Nick ripostes, deadpan. ‘A dime.’
‘That’s ten cents,’ I supply, to the children.
And they all find it really funny.
Gradually, the reporters give up on their questions, seeming to realise that they’re not going to get anything from us, and are running the risk of ruining everyone’s fun.
We’re running the risk of missing our lunch, but even after the children are marshalled back into school for theirs, a lot of the adults remain out with us on the road, despite the cold, quizzing us on the movie, and how it’s going, and whether there’s any chance we can give them a hint as to what might happen with the ending. We tell them we can’t, that we only wish we could, but are as clueless as anyone.
