The World of David Walliams 5 Book Collection. David Walliams
crowd cheered.
“My son! My son the footballer! And yellow is so your colour!” exclaimed Darvesh’s mum. Darvesh looked over at his mum, and held the cup up to her.
“This is for you, Mum,” he said.
She pulled out one of her tissues and wiped a tear from her eye. Darvesh then passed the cup to Dennis. At that moment Mr Hawtrey reappeared.
“NOT YOU, BOY!”
“But, Sir?” implored Dennis.
“You are still expelled from this school.”
The crowd started booing. Mac took a toffee bon-bon out of his mouth momentarily and joined in. Even Miss Windsor allowed herself a little French revolutionary boo.
“SILENCE!”
And there was silence. Even the adults were scared.
“But I thought…” said Dennis.
“Whatever you thought, boy, was wrong,” snarled Mr Hawtrey. “Now get off the school premises before I call the police.”
“But, Sir…”
“NOW!”
Dad waded in.
“You’re a right idiot you,” he said. Mr Hawtrey was taken aback. No one had spoken to him like that before. “My boy just won the cup for your school.”
“My son Darvesh helped too!” added Darvesh’s mum.
“Dennis was expelled though,” said Mr Hawtrey with a sickeningly smug smile.
“You know what? I’ve got a good mind to shove that cup up your whatsit!” said Dad.
“Oh dear, he’s more embarrassing than me,” muttered Darvesh’s mum.
“Look, Mr…”
“Sims. And he’s Dennis Sims. My son, Dennis Sims. Remember that name. He’ll be a famous footballer one day. You mark my words. And I’m his dad, and I couldn’t be prouder. Come on, son, let’s go home,” said Dad, as he took Dennis’s hand, and led him home across the pitch.
Dennis’s dress dragged in the mud, but he held Dad’s hand tightly, as he sloshed through the puddles.
“I’m sorry there’s mud all over this,” said Dennis as he handed back the bridesmaid dress to Lisa. It was later that afternoon and they were sat on the floor in her bedroom.
“Dennis, I’m sorry. I tried,” said Lisa.
“Lisa. You were amazing. Thanks to you I got to play in the final. That’s what really mattered. I guess I just need to find another school that might take me–the boy in the dress.”
“Maudlin Street maybe?” said Lisa with a smile.
Dennis laughed. They sat in silence for a moment. “I am going to miss you,” he said.
“I’m gonna miss you too, Dennis. It’s gonna be sad not seeing you at school, but we can still get together at the weekends can’t we?”
“I want to. Thank you for everything, Lisa.”
“What have you got to thank me for? I got you expelled!”
Dennis paused.
“Lisa, I want to thank you for opening my eyes.”
Lisa looked down, shyly. Dennis had never seen her look like that before.
“Well, thank you, Dennis. That’s the loveliest thing anyone has ever said to me.”
Dennis smiled, and his confidence grew for a moment.
“And I have to tell you something, Lisa. Something I’ve wanted to tell you for ages.”
“Yes?”
“I am completely, madly…”
“Completely, madly what?”
But he just couldn’t say it. Sometimes it’s hard to say the things you feel.
“I’ll tell you when I’m older.”
“Promise, Dennis?”
“I promise.”
I hope he does. We all have someone who, when we are near them, our heart feels like it is in the sky. But even when you’re a grown-up, sometimes it’s hard to say the things you feel.
Lisa ran her hands through Dennis’s hair. He shut his eyes, so he could feel it more.
On the way home, Dennis walked past Raj’s shop. He wasn’t going to stop, but Raj spotted him and came out of the shop to see him.
“Dennis you look so sad! Come in, come in! What on earth is the matter, young man?”
Dennis told him what had happened at the football match, and Raj shook his head in disbelief.
“You know the irony, Dennis?” proclaimed Raj. “Those people who are so quick to judge, be they teachers or politicians or religious leaders or whatever, are normally up to far worse themselves!”
“Maybe,” murmured Dennis, half-listening.
“Not maybe, Dennis. It’s true. You know that headmaster of yours, what’s his name?’
“Mr Hawtrey.”
“That’s it. Mr Hawtrey. I could swear there’s something strange going on with him.”
“Strange?” asked Dennis, intrigued.
“I don’t know for sure,” continued Raj, “but you see he used to come in here every Sunday morning at 7 o’ clock in the morning for his Telegraph. Same time every week, on the dot. And then after a while he stopped coming and his sister came instead. At least, he said it was his sister.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, I can’t put my finger on it, but there’s something very peculiar about that woman.”
“Really? What?”
“Come tomorrow at 7am and see for yourself.” Raj tapped his nose. “Now, do you want the other half of that Chomp bar? I can’t seem to shift it.”
“It’s very early for a Sunday,” complained Lisa. “It’s six forty-five. I should be in bed.”
“I’m sorry,” said Dennis.
“So Hawtrey’s got a sister. So what?”
“Well, Raj said there was something funny about her. Look, we’d better hurry up if we want to be there for seven.”
They quickened their pace along the cold, misty streets. The ground was damp from an overnight storm. No one else was up yet, and the absence of people gave the town an eerie feel. Lisa was of course wearing heels, though Dennis wasn’t on this particular occasion. All that could be heard was the click-clacking of her heels down the street.
Then, out of the grey mist stepped a very tall woman dressed in black. She entered the shop. Dennis checked his watch.
Seven o’clock precisely.
“That must be her,” whispered Dennis. They tiptoed over to the shop window and peered through the glass. This woman was indeed buying a copy of the Sunday Telegraph.
“So she’s buying a newspaper? So what?” whispered Lisa.
“Shush,” shushed Dennis. “We haven’t had