Coco Pinchard's Must-Have Toy Story Read online

  Coco Pinchard’s Must-Have Toy Story

  A sparkling Christmas comedy!

  Robert Bryndza

  Also by Robert Bryndza

  KATE MARSHALL CRIME THRILLER SERIES

  Nine Elms

  * * *

  ERIKA FOSTER CRIME THRILLER SERIES

  The Girl in the Ice

  The Night Stalker

  Dark Water

  Last Breath

  Cold Blood

  Deadly Secrets

  * * *

  ROMANTIC COMEDIES

  The Not So Secret Emails Of Coco Pinchard

  Coco Pinchard's Big Fat Tipsy Wedding

  Coco Pinchard, The Consequences of Love and Sex

  A Very Coco Christmas

  Coco Pinchard’s Must-Have Toy Story

  Miss Wrong and Mr Right

  Raven Street Publishing

  www.ravenstreetpublishing.com

  * * *

  Copyright © Robert Bryndza 2015, 2019

  * * *

  Robert Bryndza has asserted his right to be identified as the author of this work.

  * * *

  All rights reserved in all media. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic or mechanical (including but not limited to: the internet, photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system), without prior permission in writing from the publishers.

  * * *

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places, and events other than those clearly in the public domain, are either the product of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  * * *

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-9161539-5-0

  Print ISBN: 978-1-9161482-9-1

  Large Print ISBN: 978-1-9161539-0-5

  ALSO AVAILABLE AS AN AUDIOBOOK

  For Ján, with who I’m lucky enough to celebrate Christmas twice each year!

  Contents

  December 1992

  Monday 14th December

  Tuesday 15th December

  Wednesday 16th December

  Thursday 17th December

  Friday 18th December

  Saturday 19th December

  Sunday 20th December

  Monday 21st December

  Tuesday 22nd December

  Wednesday 23rd December

  Thursday 24th December (Christmas Eve)

  Friday 25th December (Christmas Day)

  A Note From Robert

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  Untitled

  December 1992

  Monday 14th December

  I was late to work this morning. I’m the teacher who lives the closest to school, so that made it even more embarrassing.

  When I opened the door to my form room, the Headmaster, Mr Sutcliffe, was behind my desk taking registration. This was bad. He never sets foot in a classroom. I waited nervously at the back until he’d finished calling the register.

  "And Mrs Pinchard," he said, looking up at me with his cold blue eyes.

  “Present,” I said, automatically. “I mean, thank you Headmaster. I’m now here, obviously.”

  I scurried to the front of the class, under the smirking gaze of thirty-two fourteen-year-olds. Mr Sutcliffe’s first name is Peter, which has earned him the nickname ‘The Ripper’.

  “I’m terribly sorry I’m late, Headmaster," I said, unwinding my scarf and setting down my bag. He was silent: he expected me to make my excuses in front of the kids. “It’s been a rather disorganised morning,” I added, lowering my voice.

  “How, exactly?” he asked, sitting back in my chair.

  The reason I was late was because Rosencrantz had been showing us extracts from his forthcoming primary school Nativity play at the breakfast table. He’d even made up a song and performed it standing on his chair, accompanied by me and Daniel tapping our cutlery enthusiastically against a bowl and an empty milk bottle:

  * * *

  I’m the bestest and wisest man,

  Ten times better than Peter Pan,

  I’ve got lots of Frankincense,

  I got it on offer for fifty pence,

  Is that Jesus in his pram?

  He looks like a lump of boiled ham!

  Most mornings I have to leave the house as Rosencrantz is eating his breakfast. It kills me to think what silliness and fun I’ve missed out on. I just couldn’t miss his little Wise Man song, and I’m so glad I didn’t. Daniel and I were crying with laughter.

  * * *

  I realised The Ripper was still staring at me, waiting for an answer, along with the kids in my class.

  “My road was closed off by the police. No one was allowed out,” I lied. He cocked his head, waiting to hear more. I went on, “I don’t know why they closed it, perhaps it was a gas leak, or a drug raid… or a prostitution ring…” The kids began to snigger. “Not that I live in that kind of area, of course, Headmaster. Or that I would be involved in a prostitution ring. I’ve barely enough time to finish all my marking!” I joked.

  The kids laughed. The Ripper’s mouth was now set in a grim line.

  “SILENCE!” he yelled.

  The kids were instantly still and quiet. A vein was throbbing in his temple.

  “Mrs Pinchard,” he said, in a dangerously low tone, “I was walking past your form room and your class was running wild. Someone was exposing their bare bottom, and pressing it against the glass partition. Unfortunately I was unable to identify the culprit.” I bit my lip, suppressing the urge to laugh. He went on, “You should have phoned the school secretary and informed me you wouldn’t be here to take registration. Don’t ever do that again.”

  I shivered as he rose and left with the register. When he’d gone, my class had a field day.

  “Uuummmm, Miss. You’re so in trouble!” said Kelly Roffey, swinging back on her chair.

  “Did you see that vein throbbing, Miss? He was really pissed off,” said Damian Grange.

  “I’m not surprised. Now, who was it who flashed their bum at the Headmaster?” I asked.

  “It was Damian, Miss,” said Kelly Roffey.

  “Prove it,” said Damian.

  “Miss, Damian’s arse has seven pimples… get him to drop his trousers and you’ll see,” said Kelly Roffey.

  “No one is dropping their trousers, now quiet,” I snapped.

  I wasn’t surprised that Damian was the culprit. I was surprised, however, that Kelly Roffey could count to seven.

  I can’t quite believe I’ve ended up as an English teacher. I thought it would be fun. I thought I’d spend all day discussing my favourite literature. But the truth is, working at St Duke’s Comprehensive is mostly crowd control. I don’t know how to inspire a load of petulant teenagers.

  “Quiet,” I said, wiping the blackboard. “Now, for homework, I asked you to read the first two chapters of A Christmas Carol.”

  They all groaned and pulled out their books.

  “What were your first impressions of Mr Scrooge? What is he like as a character?” I asked.

  Blank faces stared back at me.

  “Come on, this is A Christmas Carol. We’ve all heard the phrase to be a Scrooge…”

  “Miss? My copy’s got pages missing,” said Kelly Roffey. “It says nothing about Bob Cratchit being a frog.”

  “That’s The Muppet Christmas Carol,” I sighed.

  “Oh. Is the book different?” asked Kelly, sincerely.

  The class broke down into catcalls and laughter.

  * * *

  At lunchtime I collapsed into an armchair in
the staffroom. A half bald Christmas tree was balanced on a plastic crate by the door, swaying woozily as teachers rushed past to get in the queue for the tea urn. The curtains were clamped shut against the grey winter sky. Under the window opposite me sat three teachers eating their sandwiches: Miss Bruce (Maths, longest-serving staff member), Mr Gutteridge (Humanities, stinks of wee and coffee) and Miss Rolincova (Science, a new teacher like me, but unlike me she’s from Slovakia and incredibly beautiful). She caught me staring at her, and I quickly looked away.

  The dreary silence was broken by Miss Mesere, the French teacher. Elegant and always beautifully dressed, she sashayed past us all in a tight red skirt and jacket, her sleek dark hair swept back in a bun. She exists on a different plane to the rest of us. Her husband is minted, an investment banker I think, and she teaches French to keep busy. She was carrying a posh cake box from Patisserie Valerie, and a plastic bag with a boxed Tracy Island toy poking out of the top. She put the plastic bag down and opened the fridge.

  Mrs Carter (Geography, perpetually exhausted, has five boys) came up behind her.

  “Good God, how did you get hold of one of those?” she asked.

  “Zis is for ma ‘usband. Crème caramel. ‘Is favorit,” Miss Mesere smiled, making space for the cake box in the tiny fridge.

  “Not the cake, the Tracy Island,” Mrs Carter said. “May I?”

  Miss Mesere nodded, and Mrs Carter pulled out the Tracy Island toy, merchandise from Thunderbirds, the TV show for kids.

  “Where the hell did you get it? There’s a huge shortage of these toys!” exclaimed Mrs Carter.

  “A fabulous little toyshop near ze Kings Road,” said Miss Mesere. “French, of course. Monsieur Fauchon, ‘ow do you say? ‘E put one on ze side for me.”

  She plucked the Tracy Island from the envious Mrs Carter’s grip, slid it back in the plastic bag, and sashayed out of the staffroom with a smile.

  “What do you mean, there’s a huge shortage?” I asked.

  “You must have heard, Mrs Pinchard, surely,” said Mrs Carter coming over to our group of chairs. “All the toyshops have sold out of Tracy Islands… You’ve got a little boy, haven’t you?”

  “Yes. Rosencrantz is four,” I said, remembering with horror that he’d already written his Christmas letter, and he’d asked for Tracy Island.

  Mr Gutteridge pulled out a crumpled copy of The Sun, and smoothing it out on the stained coffee table, started to read out loud from an article.

  “‘This year’s must-have Christmas toy is the Tracy Island playset, but toyshops up and down the country have run out. The factory in China, where the toys are made, can’t keep up with demand. However, Blue Peter is coming to the rescue! Tune in at teatime when they’ll be showing parents how to make their own version of Tracy Island using cardboard boxes and empty washing-up liquid bottles,’” he read, adding, “Blimey, what kid would want a homemade one?”

  “I think me and the hubby are going to have to make five. Our boys are all Thunderbirds crazy,” sighed Mrs Carter.

  “Who is this Blue Peter?” asked Miss Rolincova.

  "Blue Peter isn’t a person,” snapped Miss Bruce, peeling a black banana. “It’s a children’s television programme on BBC One…”

  “Surely there must be some Tracy Islands in the shops?” I said desperately.

  “Nope. There are only two moulds in the factory, apparently,” said Mr Gutteridge peering at The Sun. “Sounds like the Chinks have been caught on the hop!"

  "Mr Gutteridge, you can’t say that!” clucked Mrs Carter indulgently.

  Miss Rolincova stood up, brushed the crumbs off her black skirt and left, giving us all an awkward nod.

  Mrs Carter waited till she’d gone, then turned back to our group saying, “She’s making no effort to integrate…”

  “There are plenty of English people who can teach science,” sneered Miss Bruce, a banana string hanging off the corner of her mouth. “Why did the Headmaster have to hire an Eastern European?”

  “I had a cracking night with an Eastern European girl once, she could suck a golf ball through a hose pipe!” said Mr Gutteridge, rolling up his copy of The Sun. Mrs Carter chuckled indulgently.

  I ignored them all and was about to go and phone Daniel when The Ripper came into the staffroom. He was flanked by Miss Marks, the young school secretary, who was holding a stack of plastic buckets. They stopped beside the Christmas tree, and a hush descended.

  “I don’t wish to disturb your lunch, but I do want to remind you all that tomorrow is our Christingle assembly,” he said. “We’re honoured and privileged to have the Lord Mayor of London attending with his Lady Mayoress.”

  There was silence from the unimpressed, mainly socialist staff.

  “And the School Governors,” he continued. “Staff must ensure each student in their class brings an orange to decorate, and explain the significance of the Christingle to them.”

  “Most of my class don’t even know what an orange is, let alone the significance of the bloody Christingle,” I murmured.

  “Did you want to say something, Mrs Pinchard?” asked The Ripper, fixing his cold eyes on me.

  “No, Headmaster,” I said, going bright red.

  “I thought perhaps you were volunteering to help? We need someone to supervise the students with their oranges and candles.”

  “Erm…” I began.

  “Shall I put Mrs Pinchard down for oranges and candle lighting?” asked Miss Marks with a nasty smile.

  “Yes, do, she’s obviously very keen,” said The Ripper. There was an awkward pause. He went on, “Staff will also need to co-ordinate a charity collection for any spare change. I’m confident we can beat last year’s total of ninety-seven pounds.”

  Everyone stared at him. More work before the end of term.

  “Thank you. I’ll leave Miss Marks to assign the charity buckets,” said The Ripper.

  When he’d gone, the staffroom burst back into a noisy chatter.

  “Bad luck, Mrs Pinchard. Let’s hope there isn’t a repeat of last year’s Christingle assembly,” said Mrs Carter.

  “What happened last year?” I asked.

  “Two pupils ended up in hospital with burns. Shelley Martin’s perm went up like the Hindenburg.”

  “And what about the other pupil?” I asked.

  “Dean Lewis spent three weeks in hospital after he tried to light one of his farts. It was like that film, Backdraft,” said Mrs Carter.

  On cue the bell rang, and everyone trooped back to their form rooms.

  * * *

  I arrived home just after five, exhausted. It was dark and cold, and light was glowing softly against the closed curtains of the living room. When I opened the front door I could hear the end of Newsround. I put my bag down in the hall and poked my head around the living room door. Rosencrantz was sitting atop his favourite beanbag, his tiny legs poking out with his Thunderbirds slippers on.

  ‘Mummy, Mummy, Mummy!’ he shouted, leaping up and grabbing at my legs. He’d left a tiny imprint in the beanbag, like the well in a cake mix where you break the egg. I lifted him up and he kissed my cheeks and gave me a hug.

  “How was school?” I asked.

  “Today I ate all my dinner, even though it was a bit cold… and Melanie Jones was told off for filling up the toilet with loo roll… and we had the rehearsals for the Nativity play. Joseph can’t remember his lines.”

  “But you know all yours?”

  “Of course I know all my lines, Mummy,” he said seriously.

  “And you’ve got your brilliant song. Did you sing it for everyone?”

  “No, Mummy. I only made that up to make you and Daddy laugh. I have to stick to the script. Even if I only have to bring the Frankincense,” he said, rolling his little eyes as if his talents were being squandered as a mere Wise Man.

  “You are going to be the best, wisest Wise Man,” I said.

  “It’s going to be a big production,” he added, like a seasoned pro. “Mrs Mast
ers is lending her four Dulux dogs for the manger scene. They’ve just had their hair cut so they look a bit like camels.”

  “It sounds… interesting,” I said.

  We looked up as Blue Peter started on the television.

  “Mummy! They’re making a Tracy Island on Blue Peter! Am I going to get Tracy Island for Christmas?”

  Bugger, bugger, bollocks, I thought.

  “You posted your letter to Father Christmas?” I asked.

  He nodded furiously. “I licked the stamp and everything!”

  “Then of course you’re going to get Tracy Island for Christmas.” You’re a rotten lying mother, said a voice in my head.

  Rosencrantz did a little jiggle of happiness then climbed back into his dent in the beanbag. On the TV in the corner of the living room, Anthea Turner was dressed in her fluffy Blue Peter jumper and listing all the bits you needed to make a Tracy Island at home. I stood by the door and watched Rosencrantz’s happy little face for a moment, then went through to the kitchen.

  Daniel was sitting at the kitchen table. He looked up and gave me a grin. His mother was standing by the sink in her flowery housecoat.

  “Hello Ethel, I didn’t know you were coming over, again?” I said, trying to keep my voice light.

  “Didn’t know I ‘ad to make an appointment?” she said. She picked up the teapot, swilled it round and tipped cold tealeaves down the sink.

  “Course you don’t, Ethel. You just seem to be in town a lot lately,” I said, kissing Daniel on top of his head.