How Not To Be a Boy - Robert Webb

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hope – but hey lads, don’t worry about forgetting Mum’s birthday: you’ve been off the hook since you were in utero.) Expectant mothers who know the foetus is male are more likely to report foetal movement as ‘violent’.

      So the odds are that Huckleberry, compared to India, is expected to be more independent, more aggressive, more outward-facing and less interested in personal relationships since before he was born. With the best will in the world, bunging him a Barbie when he’s five years old isn’t really going to cut it.

      *

      There I am, the Captain of the Guy-Buys, hopelessly unsocialised and massively into my swords and guns. It’s the most normal thing about me. So I prize it highly.

      *

      In between shoot-outs, chases and swordfights, the Guy-Buys and I retire to one of our dens to make repairs and plan the next massive punch-up. I have about five dens in various locations around the club. They are not difficult to ‘build’. What you do is, you snap a couple of branches in a conveniently thin part of a rhododendron bush and then just step inside. Some of the bushes are literally the size of a house.

      Inside, the sunlight dapples the carpet of dirt and leaves and I look up to the canopy and listen. There’s a blackbird singing on a branch of a nearby horse-chestnut tree. Autumn’s coming – must ask Auntie Tru for a Tupperware box; those conkers won’t just collect themselves. And in September, a new school – Coningsby Junior School – where you’re seven till eleven. Bigger boys. And some of the teachers are men. WH Smith’s have already put their ‘Back to Skool’ signs up. Why do they spell it the easy way that’s wrong, instead of the hard way that’s right? Maybe they’re just trying to be nice. Nobody really likes this time of year, do they? Just one long Sunday teatime.

      What’s that sound? Miles away, probably. One of the Vulcans? No, not deep enough. A Phantom, that’s the one. Auntie Edna, who works in the kitchen with the others, says it’s good that Coningsby has Vulcan bombers because: ‘If it happens, Robbie, it’ll be over so quick we won’t know anything about it.’ They say on the news that America has more nuclear missiles than Russia, so I suppose it’s good that our team is winning.

      A Phantom jet up there, way up there, beyond the roof of my leafy cathedral.

      43: Hey there, little buddy!

      (7 draws his sword)

      7: Friend or Foe!?

      43: Friend. So . . . how’s it going, dude?

      (Silence)

      43: Sorry, erm. Hello. You might not recognise me but . . . I’m 43.

      7: Pardon?

      43: I’m 43.

      7 (Pause): I’m 7.

      43: Yes! Exactly. How are you doing?

      7: Pardon?

      43: How are you?

      7: I’m very well, thank you.

      43: Good.

      (Silence)

      43: Yup. You see I’m writing this book and I wondered if you could help me.

      (Silence)

      43: (Looking around) Great den. One of the bigger ones, I think.

      7: Not the biggest.

      43: No. Of course not. There’s the one near the old railway line.

      (7 looks at 43)

      43: You have to be quite brave to get in it, jumping over the dyke and through the gap.

      7: I can do it!

      43: I know you can.

      7: I do it all the time.

      43: Yes, mate, I know.

      (Pause)

      43: Any Guy-Buys around at the moment or can we talk privately?

      7: The Guy-Buys aren’t real.

      43: No, course not. But play-real.

      7 (Slowly putting his sword back in his snake belt): Yeah, they’re play-real.

      43: Real in the story.

      7: Yeah.

      43: Sometimes more real than real life.

      (Silence)

      7: Is that what your book’s about?

      43: Well, the themes of memory, fantasy –

      7: Is your book about the Guy-Buys?

      43: Oh! Er, no, not really.

      7: Oh.

      43 (Pause): It’s about the Captain of the Guy-Buys.

      (7 smiles)

      7: What happens?

      43: He has adventures.

      7: What sort of adventures?

      43: Oh, this and that. Wouldn’t want to give the game away.

      (7 nods, imagining)

      43: Well, I’ll be off, leave you in peace.

      7: You said you wanted me to help.

      43: You’ve helped already. It helps me that we’ve talked, if only for a bit.

      7: Right.

      43: Will you be OK here, on your own?

      (7 draws his sword again)

      43: Yep, dumb question. Anyhow, take it easy.

      7: Wait. Are you from America?

      43: Er, no, we all talk like this now.

      7: That’s a bit rum.

      43: Isn’t it!

      (43 makes to leave)

      7: Will I see you again?

      43: Yeah . . . when you’re 15.

      7: Who will you be?

      43: I’ll still be 43.

      7: You stay the same?

      43: No, I change. But I’ll always be 43 in the story. Stories are like that.

      Alone. Safely, invincibly alone.

      I don’t want attention. Attention hurts. Yes, there are twelve Guy-Buys, but they’re not disciples and they are certainly not my boyfriends.

      They’re bodyguards.

      It’s not like I don’t have real friends, not quite. And my last year at Coningsby Infant School (across School Lane from Coningsby Junior School) is going quite well. At the birthday parties of friends I wait for the moment when someone’s mum clears away what’s left of the Angel Delight and says plaintively, ‘I wish they were all like you, Robert.’ Which is to say, ‘I wish they were all as quiet as you, Robert.’ I’m almost indignant if I don’t get that compliment at some stage. But then, I’m also uneasy, because I know that boys are not supposed to be quiet. Boys are supposed to be ‘cheeky’, like my brothers.

      And like Roger Baxter. Roger is my Best Friend. Matthew Tellis, Michael Key and I follow Roger around during playtime. Roger is obviously the leader. Bradley Hooper used to be the leader, but his dad was in the RAF and they moved to Cyprus. So Roger, being the Avon to Bradley’s Blake (don’t worry if you never saw Blake’s 7 – I just mean the spikier, more interesting second-in-command finds himself suddenly in charge), is elevated in a way he doesn’t enjoy. ‘Blummin’ ’ell, I can’t even have a wazz in peace,’ says the seven-year-old Roger as the three of us follow him into the boys’ loo to watch him urinate. While I pretend to have my own wee (having a real one is impossible unless completely alone), I can’t help being fascinated by the way Roger pulls

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